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Updated: June 28, 2025
Excess of toil wore out Fantine, and the little dry cough which troubled her increased. She sometimes said to her neighbor, Marguerite, "Just feel how hot my hands are!" Nevertheless, when she combed her beautiful hair in the morning with an old broken comb, and it flowed about her like floss silk, she experienced a moment of happy coquetry.
The trade was entirely new to Fantine; she could not be very skilful at it, and she therefore earned but little by her day's work; but it was sufficient; the problem was solved; she was earning her living. When Fantine saw that she was making her living, she felt joyful for a moment. To live honestly by her own labor, what mercy from heaven! The taste for work had really returned to her.
All at once she began to sing in a voice as feeble as a breath. The nun listened. This is what Fantine was singing: "Lovely things we will buy As we stroll the faubourgs through. Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue, I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.
At the point in this melancholy drama which we have now reached, nothing is left to Fantine of that which she had formerly been. She has become marble in becoming mire. Whoever touches her feels cold. She passes; she endures you; she ignores you; she is the severe and dishonored figure. Life and the social order have said their last word for her. All has happened to her that will happen to her.
Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress's brow; then all four filed out through the door, with their fingers on their lips. Favourite clapped her hands on their departure. "It is beginning to be amusing already," said she. "Don't be too long," murmured Fantine; "we are waiting for you."
All at once she cried: "You are speaking of M. Madeleine! Why are you talking so low? What is he doing? Why does he not come?" Her voice was so abrupt and hoarse that the two women thought they heard the voice of a man; they wheeled round in affright. "Answer me!" cried Fantine. The servant stammered: "The portress told me that he could not come to-day."
Among these details the reader will encounter two or three improbable circumstances, which we preserve out of respect for the truth. On the afternoon following the visit of Javert, M. Madeleine went to see Fantine according to his wont. Before entering Fantine's room, he had Sister Simplice summoned.
A large blue handkerchief, such as the Invalides use, was folded into a fichu, and concealed her figure clumsily. Her hands were sunburnt and all dotted with freckles, her forefinger was hardened and lacerated with the needle; she wore a cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff, a linen gown, and coarse shoes. It was Fantine. It was Fantine, but difficult to recognize.
She spoke thus, rent in twain, shaken with sobs, blinded with tears, her neck bare, wringing her hands, and coughing with a dry, short cough, stammering softly with a voice of agony. Great sorrow is a divine and terrible ray, which transfigures the unhappy. At that moment Fantine had become beautiful once more. From time to time she paused, and tenderly kissed the police agent's coat.
She did not even know her mother's name. Whenever she asked Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean remained silent. If she repeated her question, he responded with a smile. Once she insisted; the smile ended in a tear. This silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine with darkness. Was it prudence? Was it respect?
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